I'm Latigo Flint, the greatest quickdraw the world has ever known. I can draw, aim and fire a six-gun faster and straighter than anyone, living or dead. If I had been born 150 years earlier, I'd have been a living god in the American West - but I wasn't, and that's the dern, cursed luck that I have to live with.
Blogger.com has agreed to publish a running journal of my life. I reckon that was mighty kind of them, and I'm much obliged.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

The Mountain Branch of the Santa Fe Trail

Latigo Flint's local chain restaurant & brewery has just instituted a policy that limits the number of drink straws a table can request to three per person.

They claim it's simply one of a number of environmentally friendly initiatives recently mandated by the corporate office but Latigo Flint suspects a hidden agenda -- for you see, it is impossible to create a 1/8400th scale diorama of covered wagons traversing the Spanish Peaks Mountain Branch of the Santa Fe Trail with drink menus and salt shakers if you don't have at least three hundred and eighty-four straws.

A cute, off-duty waitress (sorry, "Server") was kind enough to confirm Latigo Flint's suspicions. Of course, I guess she sorta had to -- Latigo Flint is in there almost every night and he routinely tips 72%. That Scion payment isn't going to earn itself!

I paced the parking lot and hurled intense squinty-eyed glares in the direction of the restaurant & brewery while she fiddled nervously with her car antenna.

I stopped pacing and rubbed my temple with a trembling fist. "You all are in the service industry right?!"

She glanced at her cell phone for the eighth time that minute. "Well... yes."

"And as such are tasked with ensuring the patron is happy?"

"Um, I guess."

I had her; she'd fallen right into my logic trap! "Well dern it, building scale dioramas that depict covered wagons traversing the Spanish Peaks Mountain Branch of the Santa Fe Trail with salt shakers, drink menus and straws is just about the only thing that brings me even a sliver of joy these days."

She frowned slightly. "But people slip on your covered wagons on their way to the restroom."

I lowered my chin and cast her a dangerous squint. "No one said the overland trail was easy. Anything truly worth having must also be worth dying for."

She mulled this over for a moment then replied. "Well okay... but no one can order alcoholic beverages if you're using all the drink menus to build miniature covered wagons."

Her words staggered me and I dropped to a knee. I contemplated pavement as my shoulders heaved.

"My God. What have I done?" I slowly stared back up at the cute off-duty waitress, bitter tears of remorse speckling my sexy eyes. She was crouched frozen in the doorway of her Toyota Scion, her face divided - equal parts terror and lust.

Hey Old Hoss, a little faith por favor!!! I'd be fine with "I was worried she'd out-logic you..." or "I had a sneaking suspicion she might ultimately out-logic you..." but "I KNEW she was gonna out-logic you..." Yes it proved accurate but it's still dern impolite of you to say.

THIS is very true roundelay. If you know me, (and I suspect you do) you know that an encounter with the opposite sex could have gone much, much worse that this one seems to have.

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